


Problem Solver: Claire

by fluffharpy



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock Is Really Good At Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffharpy/pseuds/fluffharpy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Realistically, the problem with having sex with Claire is that when they get together, there's an incredibly high likelihood that Matt has just lost a pint or two of blood. Luckily, this problem is not insurmountable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Problem Solver: Claire

Realistically, the problem with having sex with Claire is that when they get together, there's an incredibly high likelihood that Matt has just lost a pint or two of blood. The relationship hurdles are very different.

And for better or worse, much harder to work through.

"Matt," she says, exasperated humor in her voice. "This is not really the best time. If you pull out those stitches, so help me, I'm going to be the one who kills you."

She says that, but her breathing hitches, moving from her diaphragm to her chest in excitement. Her skin sparks the air with heat, and he can smell her pussy.

"It's okay," he says. "I don't think I'm up for anything athletic right now anyway."

But:

"That doesn't mean we can't…" He continues his thought with fingertips on her cheek, tipping her face toward him, his thumb finding her lips before he leans in to kiss her.

She isn't sure about this. She doesn't want to hurt him. That's one of the more beautiful things about her, the care she spends trying to help others. Trying to help him. God knows she doesn't have to. She does because she is genuinely nurturing. That isn't the only reason she holds back, though. She also doesn't want to hurt herself. She knows her boundaries, and in a way that is also beautiful.

If he were a slightly better man, he might let that be enough.

But she leans into his kiss, and her heart speeds up when he smiles at her, and it's impossible not to smile at her when he hears her speak. He's only human.

"Just be careful," she says when he draws away. The tremor in her voice vibrates in the air.

Matt shivers.

"Stand up," he says and his hands fall to her collar. She nods. He can feel movement in the play of muscles and cloth, the sway in her posture. As she rises, her body glides up under his hands, the texture of her scrubs, the swell of her breasts—his thumbs linger there briefly, tracing across their lower curve. Her skin tightens beneath the cloth.

When he feels the bottom edge of her top, he rucks it up and leans in again, nosing her belly.

Her breathing hitches like a stutter. Her nails rack his scalp as she threads her fingers threw his hair.

"Claire," he murmurs, letting her feel her name against her skin and enjoys the way the smallest hairs on her body stand on end. The lightest touches across her sides, down the upper curve of her hips, and he's rewarded with another change in her breathing.

He's half-hard and lightheaded for it, but he can scent the beginning of clean sweat. His breathing deepens, and it hurts because doing anything hurts with a hole in his gut hurts, but it's set aside. He lets the smell of her linger on his tongue.

Slowly, he pulls her scrub pants down. She pulls off her shirt. It and her bra fall to the floor. The bra is satin, a fluid slither of sound.

"Matt, are you sure you're…"

She trails off. It should be very clear that whether or not he's up for it, it's what he wants. In case it isn't, he lets her pants and her panties fall to the floor and buries his face between her thighs. The smell, the taste, is so deliciously strong that for a moment he doesn't notice the antiseptic, or the leftover takeout slowly desiccating in the kitchen, or even the blanket of city smells that can never be locked. It's just anticipation and sex. She smells like heat. Like musk. Like a summer storm about to break—that heavy, charged humidity.

Matt's always been a little too fond of women's bodies. They're like the silk sheets on his bed. Maybe they'll make him soft, but they also soothe his senses He values that escape, if only for a little while. Soft and selfish.

On the other hand, the women haven't seemed to mind much.

Claire doesn't protest now. She spreads her legs and lets him part her pussy lips, first with his tongue and then his fingers. The narrow strip of hair that she keeps on her vulva tugs at his stubble. Her grip on his hair tightens, the most obvious of dozens signals all inspiring him to more, and he can't help but respond. He runs his tongue over her entire slit, from the back forward, and all the way to her clit. And again. And again. Each time is a little different, a little more sure as he gages her responses.

Her clit heats, pushing further from its hood. He can't see it, but he doesn't have to know that it's red and almost too sensitive to touch.

So he focuses below the exposed tip, lapping over where he can sense the shaft of her clitoris behind soft, wet skin, pulsing with blood and nerves. His nose and upper lip brush her clit directly occasionally as he licks. She shudders when he does, but the shaking in her legs is steady.

"Matt," she says, but not to say anything else. Just his name.

His fingers sink into her easily, though she's tight around them. The muscles draw him in, almost stretching away from his touch. Then they flutter in. He pants, unable to resist the temptation to picture what it would be like to have his dick in her instead of his fingers. He pictures her under him, pulling him down.

His tongue works over her, pressing firmly.

And he crooks his fingers.

Her hips rock forward to meet him, little involuntary motions that upset her balance. He steadies her hip with his free hand, unwilling to break rhythm long enough to let her sit down. He doesn't want to stop.

 _Her_ free hand braces on his shoulder. She finds a bruise. Not hard to do, considering. The shock clears his head a little. It does not encourage him to stop.

He encourages her. He presses his whole mouth to her, his tongue insistent. His fingers roll forward, a half circular motion that makes her whine softly. He lets himself tune into her body, to the way the heat pours off of her, to the sound of the blood that rushes through the arteries in her thighs, so close to his ears. He lets the scent thicken in his nose and lungs and the taste slide down his throat.

For a moment, they stay like that, moving together like that.

Then Claire goes up on the balls of her feet, arching like she'll levitate up off the floor. She stops breathing for an instant; when she does, it's like she's breathing fire. Her pussy snaps around his fingers. The spasm starts as tightening, twitching, but becomes a ripple of muscle and silky membrane. He has to pull his mouth away, has to catch her as she collapses forward onto her knees, but his fingers, those stay inside her, coaxing her orgasm to continue, adding a third finger to fill her more completely.

Her whole body shakes itself tense—his dick stirs with ambition that it can't realize, aches to join her—then she goes slack, all but the last aftershocks around his fingers and in her thighs.

He pulls her to him, pressing his face to her neck and wrapping his arms around her.

"Not bad, right?" he says. "Pretty sure those stitches are fine."

"Asshole," she mutters. Her tone is warm, without conviction. She's not lying, but she doesn't mean it either. "Not bad. Not bad, he says."

Matt laughs. "Not bad."

"You gonna do better next time?"

"Is there going to be a next time?"

She leans against him rather than answer. She's licking her lips, then biting her lip. He hears it, and in his mind he sees it. He sees the resignation, but it's easy to pretend he doesn't. Instead, he kisses her hair and enjoys the warmth while it lasts.

 

fin


End file.
